“How dare—”
“See here, now, my good fellow, keep your hectoring for helpless waiters and feeble women. I come from a country where the word dare reaps a crop of broken bones. I know you and your mongrel class. And before I leave let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t speak disrespectfully of Ireland until you are sure of your company. The moment you find yourself surrounded by your own set fire away.” And nodding jauntily, he walked to the cashier’s desk, paid his bill, gave the now hilarious waiter a shilling, and sprang into a hansom that awaited him at the door, leaving the bully turning red and white by turns and looking the very impersonation of baffled hate and rage.
“That’s no end of a brick,” cried Pommery glowingly.
“A gentleman to the back-bone.”
“I’ll swear it.”
“Blood will tell.”
“I wonder who he can be? Depend on’t he’s of the right lot.”
“What a nice touch of the brogue!”
“Just a soupçon. I’m awfully sorry he didn’t whip the fellow.”
After some fierce yet gloomy consultation with the manager and a couple of obsequious waiters the autocrat approached the table at which the two swells were seated.